


We Are Classified

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [28]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, First Love, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Hiding, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Keeping A Secret, Later Sex, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mycroft is a wet blanket, Not super angsty, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Sheriarty - Freeform, Shifting perspective, Slight homophobic theme, Teen AU, Third and second person chapters, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, consulting boyfriends, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1794613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Relax," Jim crowds in, resting their foreheads against each other, "We aren't doing anything wrong."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We're Not Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #53: Keeping A Secret
> 
> I'm going to say they're about 16 or 17 :) 
> 
> I don't enjoy writing *blatant* homophobia (homophobia at all makes me feel unclean), but I have to take into account this is set around twenty years ago... unfortunately, no getting around the mindset of the time :/ Still, I think teen!lock is adorable, and I don't think the (future) consultants would care. I don't know if I should set a TW; there are no slurs or bullying, just conflicting thoughts coming from societal pressure.

"We're going to get in trouble." Sherlock whispers, he and Jim hiding in the azalea bushes on the Holmes' estate. Sherlock knows his parents won't find them, but his _brother_ is a different story; he _always_ tries to run interference with Sherlock's plans. 

"Oh come on." Jim returns, "There's at least twenty other shrubs, and that's just on _this_ acre." It's a warm spring day, and the perfume in the air is overwhelming, on the verge of giving both boys a headache from sensory overload. Still, that's nothing compared to the hammering of their hearts in concert with one another. 

"I know, but…" _Mycroft forbade me from "sentiment…" that includes friends of any kind_ , "He thinks you're a bad influence." The subtle blush creeping across both of their visages is a testament to that statement, the color almost indistinguishable from blooming flowers all around. 

"Just because you _like_ me, doesn't mean you can't _resist_ me." Jim snickers, "Or are you actually worried you can't?" He lifts a dainty hand up to Sherlock's cheek, who doesn't pull away, "Am I so pretty? So cunning? So smart?" He notices Jim's skin is soft, most likely from his refusal to take any sports or industrial classes in school, _Since when do I pay attention to his class histories? But yes… he is the most brilliant mind I've ever known…_

"No!" Sherlock snaps, "We're just hanging out, tucked away where no one can see us because we're _innocent_." _And why am I still leaning into his hand?_

"Relax," Jim crowds in, resting their foreheads against each other, "We aren't doing anything wrong." They feel each other's breaths lightly brushing their cheeks. It hits Sherlock is a funny way, his spine shivering involuntarily, nerves screaming in fearful agony. 

"I know!" He whines, fascinated by Jim's ability to keep a perfect poker face (despite the burning red skin). Sherlock quivers, shifting his body to look at Jim properly, hands raising to stroke through his auburn hair. _It's much softer than it looks…_  

The ultimate test of his self-control, as well as it's failure, is with one statement from Jim's deft tongue, "… Do you want to do something wrong?"

Sherlock lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, " _Duh_."

Their lips connect and Sherlock immediately goes lightheaded. At first it's chaste, a timid gesture from two very lost teenagers. But then Jim delivers a very sharp nip to Sherlock's bottom lip, sending a fiery pulse through his already overstimulated veins. Then it becomes absolutely _mad_ , smashing their mouths together, frenzied bliss filling their beings.

The rough scratching of Jim's stubble makes it worse, allowing himself the lowest of moans. He knows how his parents, Mycroft, and _everyone_ would disapprove of this. It's not just about _Jim_ , or the fact he's a deviant who spends most of his time in detention (but then again, so does Sherlock), but the fact that Sherlock will be forced to admit he's "homosexual" now… He doesn't see a _problem_ with it, but people are dumb. 

Regardless of possible consequences, Sherlock doesn't want him to stop; it doesn't matter what _people_ think. People are ordinary. Whatever he and Jim have together defies such mundane classification, because they're _happy_. Possibly in love, though neither party knows how to confirm this theory. Still, they stick to the shadows to prevent scrutiny. Even if Sherlock would rather be doing this all somewhere more comfortable, he's grateful to have this gift at all.

He feels drunk off of Jim's motions. Even if there are occasional clumsy movements, it's all magical, feeling as if his blood was on fire. It's just when Jim's beginning to undo his blouse buttons that —

"Sherlock!" They hear a very disgruntled Mycroft shouting, "Sherlock! Where are you hiding?" 

The taller boy freezes, hand flying to clamp down on Jim's. Jim looks disappointed, but begins to gesture with his eyes a path that Sherlock can use to crawl away to safety. Wordlessly, they communicate the plan for Sherlock to distract Mycroft so Jim can make an escape of his own. They exchange a last, lingering kiss. 

As Sherlock crawls away, Jim smirks, _Catch you later._

After all, there is _some_ fun in keeping a secret. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one I am considering continuing. Thoughts?


	2. His Insistence (Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't see an issue with your new connection, as losing Jim no longer seems like an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shifted the perspective, hope you don't mind. I thought it felt right :)

All your life big brother has known best. Mycroft is like you, except smarter. _Better_ , as much as you're loathe to admit it. Mycroft has lived through all of the pain you are sure to feel. So he gives you advice, _rules_ , on how to best avoid it. Well, avoid 80% of it, but that other 20% will still be the worst you can imagine, if not _worse_ than what your inexperienced mind can fathom.  

So you obey him with very little question. You study, you hone your memorization of facts, you learn new languages, and anything that might be useful. You study fighting techniques, both Western and Eastern, to maximize your physical prowess. You hold your tongue when it suits you (though you're still learning _when_ that is). And above all: you are _alone_.

He used to say that you could have friends, as long as you could repress your urges to call them all idiots. But you failed that test long ago, so he's changed the rules to say that you should learn to like being alone. So far you've been good, and kept to yourself. Mostly convinced yourself that everyone outside the two of your are idiots, not worth your time.

That is until, about a month ago, that troublesome boy came in and ruined your perfect solitude. 

 

* * *

 

At first, he seems like nothing special. In fact, he's so decidedly _plebeian_ that you barely notice he's there at all, blending in so well with your featureless peers. 

Then you notice him staring at you. 

It's subtle at first, because you're not paying attention. The initial times you catch him, he has the decency to dart his eyes away, and pass it off as a fleeting glance. But the more times you find his eyes gripped by your own, he stops averting them. 

Instead, you two become locked in short bursts of staring contests. It's when one goes on an entire class period that it hits you just how remarkably un-ordinary he is: you know _nothing_ about him. 

Of the many things Mycroft has taught you, it's how to read people. "The science of deduction, little brother…" he would say, "Tread carefully, as once you've made the plunge, the world will forever be less mysterious… boring, even." You pursued it anyway, only to despise how right he was — you knew _everything_ about absolutely _everyone_ without ever saying a word to them. Well, everything that _mattered_. 

But not this new boy, who you are only now just noticing has dark, auburn hair, a widow's peak, warm, brown eyes, a bit shorter than you, a soft face, semi-thin stature, and peppered facial stubble. Yet you know _nothing_ about him (unlike the person who sits next to him in three of your shared classes, whom you know when his next dentist appointment is, and when he's been summoned to show up in court for an alleged charge of vandalism… for which, by the state of his index fingers, he is _clearly_ guilty), or what he's like. You don't even know his name.

Eavesdropping as best you can, you glean from his apparent popularity (though, you never hear _him_ speak, favoring taciturnity) that his friends call him "Jim." Though, you aren't sure they're his "friends" so much as his minions — you read more fear on their faces than adoration. 

Sneakily going through the teacher's desk at lunch time, you find his full given name: James Moriarty. But still, this tells you nothing of consequence, and now that you've decided to let him strike your interest, you _must_ figure him out. 

You might actually be worried you'll have to _talk_ to him. Except you're not, because the idea that there is still _some_ mystery left in the world is enticing. But you don't talk. You don't say a word, worried that your brother might catch wind of a new acquaintance. Even _if_ Mycroft didn't say anything about it _now_ , he would in the future when your misguided attempts at connection with another person invariably went awry. 

But at the start of the new week, something amazing happens: _he_ talks to _you_. Well, no, "talk" is a strong implication, as you're too terrified to reply, it's less a conversation than a snipe.

"Is there a reason you can't keep your pretty blue eyes off me?" He asks, though you're sure he's being sarcastic, including the compliment. Your face flushes pink, embarrassed that he's called you out on your obvious staring. Though you have half a mind to retort how he started it, the other half is preoccupied with the new knowledge of his voice. You've never heard him speak before, and the soft Dublin accent does strange things to your heart. It feels as if it might punch through your sternum. 

All your body can think to do is back away slowly, and hope he won't stare at you more in Chemistry. 

When he _doesn't_ , you feel like you should be relieved. But you're more on edge than ever, your eyes betraying quick side glances to his lab desk. However, he is completely focused on the lesson (for once).

It's later, when you're throwing a ball against the ceiling in your room in frustrated pensiveness, that you register that his earlier comment might not have been sarcastic. _It might've been an invitation for real dialogue…_  

But his remark about your eyes being "pretty" confuses you. Now that you're sure he was being sincere, it makes your stomach drop, like you're falling out of the tree in the back yard, same as you did when you were six (that Mycroft told you not to climb in the first place). 

Going back to school the next day, he still avoids your gaze, no matter how hard you try and catch his. Again, you worry that you might have to initiate contact. But now it's worse, because you're worried you might get _rejected_. Even if you _know_ it's your own fault for rejecting him in the first place, you have to struggle, kick and scream away every ounce of apprehension.

You reach him as school lets out for the day. You didn't know that you knew which locker was his, but you wait for him there. He approaches, a look of slight perplexity apparent on his face, but he doesn't say anything as he pops open the small wooden door. 

A full minute ticks by before you say anything, and even then, you only manage one word, "Yes."

He jerks his head toward you, momentarily stunned as he's just now heard _your_ voice for the first time. When he responds, he is clear, unlike your quavering tone, "Yes, what?" 

"Yes." You swallow, "There is a reason I stare at you." 

It's curious how he smirks — it's crooked, but it looks far more pleased than any typical smile you've ever seen. It makes your heart skip twice. "And why would that be?" 

You'd answer, except you don't know _why_ , other than you can't figure him out (which is equivalent to saying "I don't know"). You just know there _is_ an answer.

When you don't reply, you're panicked he might think you rude, and thusly reject your company. But he doesn't. In fact, nothing in his facial expression reads "disdain." The giddy beam is still there, and he nods, "Tomorrow. Half an hour before the first bell. Choir room." He walks away so effortlessly, leaving you in a daze.

You don't sleep at all that night. 

 

* * *

 

The next day, you show up when you're supposed to. The choir room is abandoned, and doesn't get used until after Geometry. It was locked, but thankfully lock-picking is on your brother's list of recommended skills. You try not to think too much of your brother, because you know how he'd disapprove of what you were doing right now. Even if you're not entirely sure what you're doing. 

The curtains are drawn, so there's only the smallest of streams of light leaking in. You assume your late companion doesn't want you to turn on the fluorescents, lest the outside world possibly be alerted to your presence. You think of finding a chair to wait in, but it's at that moment you hear the door open ever so quietly.

"Jim?" You whisper, almost too desperately.

"Sherlock." You're rewarded with your name on his tongue, suddenly struck by how beautiful it sounded (though you've never thought that about your own name before). It seems odd that he knows your name, you never having given it, but then again, you know his all the same. 

You see his slight outline in the faint illumination — he doesn't even seem _real_. He approaches you. Close. Very close. 

"Why- why are we here?" You stutter, now allowing yourself to be nervous as to his reasons for asking you to an abandoned classroom before anyone had arrived on the premises. You're shivering, but it's not cold. Actually, you feel very warm. Too warm. Like you may explode, your heart doing those weird convulsions you felt yesterday. 

Without warning, he grabs you. You're suddenly quite concerned that he might hurt you, that he's brought you here for some sort of violent physical altercation. You couldn't be more wrong, him angling your face downward toward his own. 

You stumble into his form, your lips somehow finding his own spot-on. It's a full body shock: a new sensation entirely, one that you so urgently want to file away in your burgeoning mind palace for proper analysis. But in the moment you cannot process coherently enough to think _logically_ ; your world has grown very small, only encompassing all connected to the point your mouth meets his.

You stay like this for a few minutes, pulling away slightly and leaning back in, sort of in a rhythm, though you can't tell what it is. It's shallow, but it communicates so much. He's ever so gentle, not demanding anything more than you're comfortable with. He's shaved his stubble. You wonder if that was for your benefit, as he clearly _planned_ for this to happen. 

He rests his palms on your hips, your arms unconsciously flying up to hook around his neck. You pull each other close, feeling the curve of each other's forms, and how they fit together so nicely. He slides his tongue tenderly between your lips, causing you to gasp at the jolt. Your shivering has become comparable to earthquake tremors, leaving you marveling as to where your fine motor control has gone. But you don't — _can't_ — want him to stop. You want it to get worse. So much worse. 

He obliges. As your tongues touch, you now feel like a live wire, muscles seizing and releasing as they wish, your brain no longer in control. This is what you wanted, but the actual practice is terrifying. 

It's too much. You break away. You want to cry from overstimulation. You dash out of the room, not looking back. 

You can't concentrate the whole day, you're too busy thinking of what happened, how you felt, how _he_ felt, how you lost control, but didn't seem to mind. How you wanted to do it again. Staring out the window so you don't accidentally look at him, you wonder what it all means.

Unfortunately, you make the mistake of asking Mycroft. He isn't _upset_ , or _angry_. He does exactly what you think he will: scold you for breaking the rules, and reminding you that you will _regret_ trying to make this kind of connection. But then accidentally you let it slip that _his_ name is "Jim," and Mycroft immediately shows _more_ displeasure. 

You aren't _stupid_ , you know that your apparent same-sex attraction is a moderate-to-extreme taboo. But you don't see what the big deal is. Mycroft quotes some drivel your parents have drilled into him about being part of "the social elite." It all sounds like bollocks. You don't argue, but you don't capitulate either. In the end, all your brother does is forbid you from "romantic entanglement." You consider rebuffing this limitation, but all the hormonal rush in the world isn't enough to convince you that your brother is wrong for commanding it. 

Jim doesn't press the issue of the "physical," but you two spend time together. Every day. For weeks, you only do so in public. You don't touch anymore, even if every inch of your nervous system is screaming at you to reach your hand out and place it on his. 

Instead, you content yourselves by talking. You have similar interests (philosophy, maths, chemistry, music), though his fascination with astronomy completely baffles you (but you love to hear him babble about it no less). More and more, your mind engages with his, syncing together so intimately like you've never done before. You sense a darkness within him, the capacity for something truly diabolical, but you can't find it in yourself to abhor it. Contrary to how you thought you'd react, you're intrigued by this notion — Mycroft had only ever told you to stick to the path of lawfulness.

You can't see an issue with your new connection, as losing Jim no longer seems like an option. 

However, the more your mind attaches to his, the harder it is to resist your body's desire to bond as well. But still — even though it causes somatic harm, like a railroad spike being forced slowly through your heart — you do. 

 

* * *

 

Until, a few weeks later, Jim suggests you play hide-and-seek in the garden. But he's all too easily found hiding in the azalea bushes. It's a thinly veiled  ploy to get you closer. You know you should drag him out, and make him take his turn. But you don't. 

You crawl in, promising yourself you'll only stay for a few moments. But it's one of those promises you know you'll break. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be at least one more chapter!


	3. How He Ruined You (Jim)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you have to go?" You're not sure if he means _right now_ , or in the future. Chances are, he's read your mind (in a sense) well enough to know you're a militant drifter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wake up one morning... and your T-rated fic suddenly becomes E? 
> 
> Because that's basically what happened... SMUT AHEAD!

Nothing you do is arbitrary. Each move is meticulously planned, even if it makes life a bit predictable. But in your line of work, predictable means safety, and safety is king, even if it is also synonymous with "boring." 

Your job description is simple: solve problems. You're not certain _how_ you came into such a niche profession, but you did, and don't think you could do anything else — you live to serve. Of course, most "problems" people came to you or your network with were _people_ , the solution to which was usually _death_. Remorse and you weren't well acquainted, if at all, so you didn't see much of a difference between what you do, verses an accountant. 

You transfer schools often to protect your identity — you're an orphan, so no one cares what you do, especially since the entire world is under the impression your father is still alive. Additionally, it doesn't hurt to be in a very lucrative field, so you always have nice lodgings, even if you do need to have an older proxy handle the paperwork (which you wouldn't need very soon, once you were of age). 

You started out when you were only thirteen, when your father moved you to Sussex. Your mother had already run off, and because of that (and his alcoholism), your father moved around frequently to hide his inability to hold down a job. Which was all fine — it had the added benefit of hiding your own misadventures (a murder here and there, missing jewels, identity theft, a stray bit of arson every now and then).

Even after he died (of "mysterious" circumstances), you kept up the nomadic habit. You were only fifteen, but you were certain you could handle it, and there had been no evidence to the contrary (yet). 

It's a perfect system: you start up a web of followers wherever you go, then move when you've gained their unwavering loyalty (though some required more pay or prestige than others). Then you keep in touch, maintaining just enough mischief to keep people interested until you _really_ needed them. Thanks to all that, you'd become independently wealthy within a year of your father's passing.  

What you can't figure out, however, is how _Sherlock_ is threatening to ruin _all_ of it. You only arrived a month ago, but already he's on the verge of _gluing_ you to this one place for much longer than scheduled. He might be more trouble than he's worth, but you could go through a _lot_ of trouble before it outweighed his benefits. 

You don't understand what drew you to him in the first place, and that makes him a dangerous variable with powers over you that you don't yet understand. Obviously _now_ you knew all the amazing things about him, and how he filled some strange chasm you didn't even know was there. But before that, he was just like anyone else: a potential minion, easily exploitable. 

Except you never thought that — Sherlock had been far too removed from the others. He didn't fit in. Part of you hoped that was because he was like you: far too brilliant for conformity, but didn't have the skills necessary to subjugate the lesser beings. _Yes_ , you tell yourself, _That must've been what I picked up on._

You accept that answer, because you're afraid of the truth, which is that you didn't think those things at all. He just caught your eye one day, and you couldn't look away. You attempted to flirt with him, but he wasn't like the others, who would just fall over at your charming smile. 

 

* * *

 

You are disappointed, but it's only a momentary setback. You're in the early stages of planning your next move when the boy approaches you on his own, standing by your locker, looking like he had purpose. You say nothing, though your face gets hotter the longer you're in his presence. He replies to your flirtatious statement from days ago, you think it's cute. 

You summon him in the way the usually do, by making him an offer. Offers _are_ your stock and trade after all. What's _really_ hilarious is the way he looks at you after the words leave your mouth: it's obvious he has no idea what your intentions are. Silently, however, he accepts. 

He doesn't see how much you _want_ him, or that he's in denial about how much he wants you back (poor thing doesn't even know he's _gay_ yet). It's beautiful how _novel_ the idea is, what a… _virgin_ he is. You've never had one, and you question how that might affect your experience. Somehow, this is the first time you feel _nervous_. 

Initially, when he steps into your dominion, Sherlock seems frightened, unaware of what's going on. But as you lock him in your embrace, pressing against your sensitive lips, he melts under your touch all the same, except he makes you feel… shiny, special. Like you're more than an object, and so is he. 

It's _ridiculous_ how his skin tastes. Eventually his tongue. Even his saliva is like a light sugary syrup, combining with yours smoothly. It's _ridiculous_ what it does to you every time you take another sample, your arteries threatening to burst. Just as you need to break away, he cuts you off. He stays for a moment, both of you panting, but then he takes off. _No one_ denies you, or ever has, and it drives you absolutely _mad_. Frustration grips the edges of your consciousness, as if you've _lost_ your first meaningful experience. 

You've been with _many_ others before, of course. Exclusively men, both by your own personal preference, and _their_ preference for _you_. It was technically illegal since you were monetarily compensated for your services, as well as you being legally underage. Then again, it was _also_ illegal for you to use your time together as blackmail. See, you made a point of seeking out men of power and influential social standing, not just wealth — you make the ludicrous social restrictions work _for_ you.

That's what "romance" was to you, which is why you had assumed it'd be no different when it came to your inexplicable attraction to Sherlock. The problem is he wasn't a "client." Oh no. _You_ pursued _him_ , and when he comes back the next day and tells you it can't happen again (by his stupid _brother's_ ruling, no less), it becomes clear he had absolutely nothing to offer you but the pleasure of his company.

You should want to pull away, and write him off as a failed experiment; he's of no _real_ use to you anymore. But the opposite happens: you want to get _closer_. You want to delve further and further into him, just into his mind. You don't care if you never touch that radiant, cozy flesh ever again, just as long as you'll always hear his voice. Still, you're incredibly pleased when his body language betrays him: an "accidental" brush of his hand against yours, those high cheekbones staining pink, him unconsciously licking his lips as he fixates on your mouth.

Finally, _finally_ he gives in and defies his brother's arbitrary rulings. You always knew he would, he just needed the right push — so while you're hanging out on his family's many acres, you tell him to find you. Under the shade of the vibrant bushes, he finds you easily. Your eyes meet, and with a slowly curling finger, you beckon him towards you. 

Oh, and it's so delicious, as you see the _exact_ moment he realizes what you're suggesting. You'd expected him to be more apprehensive, but his face _relaxes_ , because he's reasoned that it's not really _his_ idea. That you're completely responsible for his urges. Grinning, you're fine if he wants to blame you for a little while. 

You kiss again, the sparks being far more intense than you'd even built them up to be. Instinctively, you want to open him up, _reveal_ whatever was underneath his controlled façade, you want to feel _more_. More of his skin, more of his lips, his heartbeat, you want to drag your teeth over every inch of his delicate frame… _everything_. 

He's far, _far_ from your first, but it's terrifying regardless, because it feels so _different_ than anyone else had been. Your heart is thrashing, absolutely _punishing_ you for showing weakness. Your entire being seems to vibrate to the frequency, making your already feeble coordination fumble with Sherlock's shirt, incautiously trying to get it off.

But your extra delay proves to be your saving grace — before you undo the first clasp, big brother begins calling for him. You exchange a quick shocked glance, knowing that his perceptive kin will somehow know what he's been doing. Needless to say, even if it'll be easily read, you still need to put up a show. Sherlock runs off in a different direction, and you count to a hundred. 

After crawling through at least thirty feet of brush, you determine that you and he need a better place to meet up. You tell him this the next day, considering taking him back to your place (though, you'll need to make up an excuse as to why your parents aren't around). 

It tickles you when he replies sheepishly, "No need… I'll have the house to myself next week." So you wait patiently for his family to leave.

But in fits of greed, you snatch him into the utility closets on various floors between classes. Needy hands wander everywhere, and Sherlock gets better at the art. While others couldn't tell you'd been on misadventures except by the creases on your pants (not that anyone is as perceptive as you), Sherlock looked guilty as hell. 

You're watching his slow corruption, and it makes you feel oh so _naughty_.

 

* * *

 

Writhing around together in his bed, it's utterly disgusting how _novice_ you feel, overwhelmed with so many _feelings_. You have no idea why you've let it get this bad. Which is odd, because it started out _great._

 

* * *

 

You'd thrown him against the wall, ripped off his clothes with little regard for preserving the textiles. Yet, Sherlock seemed to _love_ it, letting out choked moans, labored breathing, making these _obscene_ noises that you can't even begin to process — _god_ , you just wanted to end it. Shove the hapless teen on his knees and use him. Before he used you.

But you don't want to do that to him. You know he doesn't want to _use_ you, and that his intentions are _pure_ … So you slow down, which is when it started to curdle. 

He begins to equalize your levels of nudity (since he's completely naked, it's only fair), but it's a gradual, tantalizing build, as his unsteady hands inch up your back, jerking under your shirt. Stopping to catch your breath as he goes to work, you feel a pang of guilt; what he's doing feels… _amazing_. Physically it's a bit tedious, but the emotional associations, how he's _destroying_ your limbic system… you feel _cared_ for. 

You feel horrible that you've denied him this pleasure, even if the world had denied it to you. Distantly, you consider reciprocation in the future. If there _is_ a future. 

After your clothes were so attentively placed in a pile, you push him against the wall again, with renewed vigor. Something you can't explain stirs inside you — a powerful, undeniable urge to  (for lack of more elegant words) suck his cock. You can't remember there being a time you were so excited to do so, where it felt like some hedonistic desire that burned to be satiated.

All you knew is that it _needed_ to happen. _Now_.

You spider your hands to his waist, then put pressure on his hips, holding him back, taut against the wall. You sink down, running your lips down his abdomen, a bit of tongue flicks out to taste the thin layer of sweat beginning to crop up. He gasps before you're even on your knees. 

Taking his length into your mouth, you're surprised to find you're getting _just_ as much out of this as he is. You think of touching yourself, but you're convinced you might be able to come like this, just listening to his breathy moans, feeling him squirm under your palms. You'd planned to give him a moment to adjust, but your need for _more_ overrides this compassion. 

With no gag reflex, it's hardly an issue. He sounds like he's _dying_ , but still enjoys it. You'd laugh if your throat weren't otherwise occupied. His fingers begin to pry at your own, and you're perplexed, but don't stop bobbing your head, stealing glances upward, watching him unravel at the seams. 

Then you feel his hands in yours. Squeezing them. _Oh_. You swallow around him, he twitches, _He wants to hold my hands…_ sickeningly sweet, but you don't want to stop. He chokes off a scream as you feel him pulse, liquid shooting down your esophagus. Gently, _gently_ you pull your face back, but he's so sensitive even _that_ makes him wriggle. 

You stand, leaning against him, but fight the urge to rut against him shamelessly. He takes a moment to wheeze, processing what had just happened. Then out of nowhere, he tips you both back to fall into the cushion of the mattress. You reorient yourselves, he's on all fours, hovering over you. You tense up when he slides down — you don't usually have the favor returned unless you press the issue. 

Immediately, you notice he's not that skilled. _Well… of course not… first time and all_. You thread your fingers through his hair, guiding his head through the motions of it. While he can only take about half of you without spazzing out in a coughing fit, he gets to a rhythm that is positively _vicious_ , attacking every one of your nerves. As he gets more into it, his arms hook under your legs, palms coming up to grip your waist. 

"Ah, ah, _ah_ — " You moan, tension releasing and clamping again, trying to uncoil the rising anticipation in your gut, "Suck a little." He takes your advice to heart, and that's it, " _Sherlock_!" 

To his credit, he looked _very_ sexy trying to swallow. Still, some leaked out the corners of his mouth. Of course, you don't mind, but then he begins to lick it off you and the sight is enough to trigger your readiness to go _again_. He smirks at the sight of your cock already half-hard again, sitting up to show he was in a similar condition. 

Then you see the fear and uncertainty, but what is it for? "Is everything alright?" You try not to let the concern show on your face, but you can't help it. It seems to make it worse, as he mumbles something that you don't catch.

"I'm sorry?" 

"I don't know what to do now." He says louder, voice oddly disjointed. 

Something about the statement throws you off, but it could be so many things that you can't pinpoint just one. Of course, you'd _planned_ for sex — condoms and lube tucked away in your discarded coat — but you weren't about to demand it. 

"Well," you kiss him once, "What do you _want_ to do?"

To spare himself the indignity of stuttering through the answer (you know he would've), he just pushes you back, sweeping the covers over you. You wonder why, when you realize he actually _does_ intend to sleep with you, _funny… I never pictured him as the bashful type._ But you go along with it, finding it somewhat endearing. 

You talk him through some of the less obvious bits — you give him the lube, condom packets, pointers on how to gently work you open so full penetration won't hurt — everything about this whole experience is strange, as you usually zone out for these parts. But now you stay checked in, both to instruct and because you _want_ to. You _want_ to feel every moment of this, even if it is somewhat unpleasant. 

But this where you begin to fall apart. Until this point, even though you were truly _sharing_ these moments, you'd felt quite superior with your knowledge and experience. Leading him to greater corruption, guiding him to the more decadent pleasures, maybe even into your criminal habits. 

Yet, it seems, in this moment, _he_ is mastering _you_. As he begins to break into your body, helplessness washes over you. You've given him the power, the control. _Willingly._ This wasn't a transaction, this was _you_. Your face gets very hot, either from the embarrassment from the realization, or the spike in heart rate as he began to thrust, you aren't sure.

Arching into it, you know you won't last long — as if your nerves weren't already alight, buzzing from the last time, something about it being _him_ incites stronger lust from you. It's not just a physical attraction, but a deeply intellectual stimulation as well. And _that_ is truly erotic. 

You're so lost in this thought, this _idea_ of what Sherlock does to you, that you almost miss your own orgasm. But you're pulled back into the present when he begins to palm you gently, in time with each snap of his hips. 

"Sherlock…" You whisper breathlessly, this time your climax hitting softly, yet still as intensely. 

"Jim…" He returns, leaning down to kiss you, finishing to your body's contractions. You accept, fingers lacing through his lovely curls again. 

 

* * *

 

You bask in the afterglow for a moment, savoring the hormonal influx. You feel something else, too, but you can't be sure what, all you know is that it's something like drinking too much caffeine. Maybe with a little brandy. You're almost jittery, which is odd in tandem with the recently unwound tension. Then, as you've become accustomed to doing, you sit up, ready to leave. But as you grab your pants, Sherlock curls his fingers around your wrist. 

"Jim?" He asks quietly. You love the way he says your name — there isn't actually anything special about _how_ , but the fact that it's _him_ saying it truly makes the difference, "Yes?" 

"Do you have to go?" You're not sure if he means  _right now_ , or in the future. Chances are, he's read your mind (in a sense) well enough to know you're a militant drifter.  _  
_

"Usually." But you haven't moved, "Why wouldn't I?" It works for both interpretations.

Again, it's disgusting, and you hate him as he pulls you back down, throwing the blankets back over you, and holds you against him, the curves of your forms fitting together so perfectly. Except you can't hate him, not one shred. Then, feeling _all_ of his front against your back, you could kick yourself: you forgot to remind him to use protection. You hadn't even noticed. _Well, no use in telling him now…_

You decide right then, even if it's to your detriment, that you'll stay in London a little longer, wanting to explore whatever it is you've got here. _Because I'll probably never feel this way again…_

You're fine with this, deciding that at the very least, more data was needed. In the meantime, it's all too easy to fall asleep in his arms.  ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably another chapter floating around in my head somewhere...
> 
> I'm looking for it o.o


	4. Scene-lets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things were going well, even if they weren't to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for homophobic situation, though nothing too terrible comes of it.

Publicly, Jim and Sherlock don't interact. Jim has his own "friends," and Sherlock likes being alone during school hours. Even though Jim has expressly invited him to join in his group, Sherlock doesn't quite have the tolerance for idiocy that Jim does. 

He's still lonely at school, but in a sense, he's never been more wanted; he always _felt_ Jim's presence. 

Plus, they still meet in private, both on and off school grounds. For the most part, they'd spend time at Sherlock's, finding new places to hide in the empty halls of his manor; service cupboards, stairway closets, out-of-use dumbwaiters, sometimes Sherlock's actual room if his parents weren't home. 

Or, when Mycroft was visiting, they'd go to Jim's, though he'd always have to find some new or recycled excuse for why his family was never around. 

Things were going well, even if they weren't to last. 

 

* * *

 

Fingers run expertly, tantalizingly, through Sherlock's curls, sure to be a mess when he emerges. But in this moment, shirt completely unbuttoned, face flushed, panting into the air as teeth rake across his throat, Jim's other hand fumbling with his belt, he can't find it in himself to care. 

Sherlock's own hands can't figure out what to do — they hop from gripping the back of Jim's shirt, to his waist, to his arse, to helplessly trying to gain access to his pants (only to be batted away — Jim preferred taking control in scenarios like this), to pulling him closer in desperation. 

"Jim…" Sherlock groans.

"Shh!" Jim hushes him sharply, reminding him of where they were.

In the supply closet at school, silence is of the utmost necessity. Undeniably, both are surging with vigor on the unspoken air of _danger_ : they could be caught at any moment. Still, they exercise the most precaution as possible, while still hanging in the balance between "scary" and "sexy."

Jim didn't know _why_ he liked doing such forbidden things in such an obvious place, but something about the _power_ of it… even if they were never caught in the act itself, the other students would notice the marks on Sherlock's neck magically appearing after lunch. They'd _see_ proof that he belonged to someone else, despite the fact they weren't "out" as a couple. 

Sucking a bruise high at the forefront of his throat, Jim cackles internally as he pictures Sherlock trying to tie his scarf in such a way as to hide it, _Maybe not today, my sweet…_ He smiles against the crook of Sherlock's neck as the other boy's belt clicks open, flipping the zipper down, sliding his hand into his trousers, gripping his hardening length. 

"Naughty, naughty." Jim whispers, kissing along his ear, "We're in _school_."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Shh…" Jim bites his earlobe, "Punish you, obviously." 

Knowing he'd moan at that, Jim is quick to swipe away the hand in Sherlock's hair, clamping firmly around his voice box, "Shh!"

Letting go, Jim sets to work, mouth returning to Sherlock's, hand beginning to lightly work against his prick, giving him just enough friction to increase _need_ , but not enough to alleviate the suffering. Sherlock feels like he's teetering between pleasure and _pain_ — the contact so intense that he's sure he might explode. He wants to scream in every possible way, but Jim's lips are insistent, drowning out any noises he could think to make. 

All of the sexual energy is instantly converted into terror as the door swings open. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock takes some solace that it's Mycroft who comes to pick him up from the headmaster's office — his parents would've had him _immediately_ pulled from the school. Mycroft, thankfully enough, would only give him an arduous lecture. Which, in the face of losing Jim forever, Sherlock was more than willing to take. 

In fact, he was a bit disappointed when he only got three sentences of disappointment and warning: "I had hoped you wouldn't get involved. It's clear to me now that you'll do whatever you set out to do, little brother." Mycroft sniffs disinterestedly, "But don't act surprised when it invariably ends in pain."

They're assigned six separate detentions. Jim only ends up serving two on good behavior. Sherlock, who was stubborn through the whole thing, does eight. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had assumed that getting caught meant his delicate relationship with Jim would be over. To the contrary, Jim seemed relieved. 

They no longer snog in closets or during school hours, but they hold hands in the hallways. Under the desks in classes. A kiss here and there. Ignore the glares they get. 

Sherlock is very sure that if he wasn't dating _Jim_ , they'd be getting a lot more than looks. But he'd deduced long ago that Jim had some sort of power, or menace that made people steer clear of criticizing or confronting him. Some might find the prospect terrifying, but Sherlock is only ever grateful. 

It only happened once, but it was no less unsettling. Jim wasn't around, and like always, Sherlock was alone. Somehow, stupidly, he got cornered by three boys in the grade ahead. He couldn't remember ever having spoken to them before, or at least not insulting them outright. 

They said nothing, just backing him in to a corner, between concrete walls and metal lockers. Sherlock wanted to run — he'd been taught how to fight, but never more than two on one; three seemed too much of a stretch. But there was nowhere to run. Within seconds, he's resigned to taking the punches. He closes his eyes. 

"Hey." Came Jim's lazily lilting Irish drawl, almost bored, "You got a problem with my boyfriend?" 

The boys turned around and stood their ground for a moment, as if weighing their options. Sherlock still had his eyes closed, but he could feel the moment the tension released as his potential bullies skulked away. _Whatever power Jim has, they clearly don't want to mess with it_.

Jim slowly approaches Sherlock, seeing the buckling of his knees, "It's okay." He says quietly, cautiously wrapping his arms around his waist, "It's okay." Sherlock doesn't cry, although he feels the inexplicable _need_ to. His body shakes, and he buries his face in Jim's embrace. But inwardly, he's gone numb, unable to process what happened. Worst of all, the fact he'd given up so easily. Mentally flogging himself, he goes slack in Jim's arms. He doesn't speak again for at least a week. 

They go back to Jim's place every day after school and he makes tea. His parents are "on vacation." Sherlock doesn't question it, either out loud or to himself.

Thankfully, they sit in silence as Sherlock works his way out of catatonia, Jim only occasionally humming some tune to soothe him. Jim makes no sexual advances, and they fall asleep on the couch listening to classical violin pieces on the record player.

As he loses consciousness, something won't leave Sherlock's mind: it was the first time either of them had ever said "boyfriend." But he was a bit too shaken up to ask about it that day or the next, and it just didn't seem to come up again. Not anytime soon.

No one ever bothers Sherlock again, and slowly, he comes out of his protective shell. 

 

* * *

 

It's winter now. Since their relationship got out, they've been doing more and more together, especially in the public eye. It makes Sherlock giddy to think he can show _everyone_ he was _with_ Jim. It was a little like flaunting, or boasting, but he didn't care — he had the most amazing boyfriend (though he wasn't sure if that's what it was), and was done being secretive about it. 

Like today, they're walking hand-in-hand along the Thames. Silently, they enjoy the drifting snowfall, which had been picking up thickness as time passed by. Sherlock had only put on a navy blue jumper, thinking that the burgeoning storm would let up, but even cold couldn't convince him to cut his time with Jim short. Jim had been smart about it and was in a knee-length woolen trench coat — it was quite nice, and somehow deflected the flakes trying to cling to it.

They stop for a moment to gaze across the river, taking in the grey of the sky, the choppy motions of the currents. 

Jim pulls Sherlock into a hug, getting on his toes to put his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. The taller boy's heart begins to hammer, chest purring. 

It's been nearly three months, he knows this simple contact shouldn't affect him so much, but it does. Yet, when the bees begin to buzz in his ribcage this way, they like to float into his brain, making it overwork, and force his mouth along for the ride. 

"Have you ever gone with girls?" Since he'd been away from company most of his life, Sherlock doesn't have much of filter. He just says things, never really grasping when questions were "appropriate" or not. They part slightly so they can meet each other's eyes.

"Mmm… No. Never given the idea much thought." Thankfully, Jim doesn't mind; for most people, he's got a short-fuse, but for Sherlock, he's got infinite amounts of patience. In fact, he appreciates his candor. 

"Oh." He sounds dejected — as if he'd wanted more of a conversation. 

"Why? Have you?" Jim teases, acutely aware of Sherlock's every feeling. 

"You know that." 

"Ah, yes, my little _virgin_." He nips at Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock nudges Jim, blushing slightly, "Not anymore." 

They giggle — they hardly ever do, but it seems like the appropriate thing in this situation.

"I guess…" Sherlock continues when their little fit is done, "I've just never felt this way about anyone… aren't I supposed to feel this way about girls?" 

Jim wrinkles his nose, "I don't like those implications."

"What do you mean?"

"That you _should_ feel anything for anyone."

"… should I not?"

"No. There isn't any _must_ , or _need_ ; you just _do_. Not much of a choice in it." 

"Oh." Sherlock tilts his head in consideration, "Makes sense."

_Because I had no choice in falling for you._

In that moment, he's lost in Jim's gaze, defined lines of his face standing out starkly against the muted, snow-covered world. Dark eyes draw him in as his skin is set alight, an anchor to this feeling, whatever it may be. 

A stiff breeze blows over them, and Sherlock shivers — both out of cold, and infatuation, _Should've dressed warmer, didn't think it was going to be a complete blizzard…_  

"Hmm." Jim frowns and squeezes his hand, then lets go. Sherlock balks at the cessation of contact, and doesn't quite understand what's happening until he realizes Jim is shrugging out of his coat, then throws it over his shoulders.

"Much better." He coos, coaxing his arms into the sleeves and buttoning up the front. Sherlock finds himself blushing, slightly ducking into the coat to hide the stains on his cheeks. 

They make their way back to Sherlock's estate, walking part of the way, taking the tube when they could. Sherlock stifles his shivers, thinking about curling up in front of his fireplace.

"Would you like to come in?" Sherlock asks as Jim makes to kiss him goodbye at the gate.

"I would, but I have some homework to do." Jim explains away, but really, he's got a job. _Meeting a client to discuss details of a robbery or something._

"Oh. Okay." Sherlock begins to unbutton Jim's coat that he just realized he was still wearing. 

But the shorter boy stays his hand, "Keep it." He grins, "Looks better on you anyway."

Flustered, Sherlock has no idea how to respond. They kiss goodbye, and he watches Jim walk off. He hangs it on the chair next to his bed, falling asleep staring at it, wishing it were actually Jim there — he longs for his parents to go out of town again so he can share his bed; being alone felt so unnatural now. 

He wears the coat to school the next day. And the next. Every day that winter, actually. Some people notice the grey fleece once draped Jim's shoulders, some don't. Those that do look almost _afraid_ , like Sherlock had suddenly become his body double, or that he was under Jim's odd brand of protection. He also liked the way Jim would look at him, almost possessively, whenever he was in it. 

It felt juvenile, but whenever he wore it, he really did feel like he was _Jim's_. 

 

* * *

 

It's been another few months, the weather quickly picking up in time for spring. 

High in a tree, leaning against each other, they enjoy a warm breeze. Sitting on a bough, their legs dangle earthwards, swinging slightly, playing footsie. The feel of Jim's bare skin against his calf drives him crazy, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. 

The drive to spew out whatever thoughts reach his brain appears again, hitting his spine, "Are you my boyfriend?"

Jim hums, "What else would I be?"

"I don't know… but are you? Are we?"

"I suppose we are." He entwines their fingers, "Are you happy right now?"

Sherlock considers this — he's fairly sure he is, though his entire life has been about _shunning_ all emotion. Denying the feelings, certainly never _admitting_ to them. But he hadn't been guarding against these things with Jim; he was already breaking the rules, so he didn't give them much thought when it came to this new connection. He gave himself permission just to _feel_ , "Yes."

"Some sociopath you've turned out to be." Jim smirks, "Me too." 

 

* * *

 

It's been six months. Far longer than Jim had ever intended to stay, but he couldn't bear to leave Sherlock. At least, not without a proper conclusion to his experiment. The problem, however, is that he's got no idea how to end it — he doesn't _want_ to. 

He's not bored, like he figured he'd eventually be. 

 _And I could feasibly deal with never doing so_. Jim thinks, _Except I can't stay here very much longer. Getting antsy for a change._ Still, his compulsive need to scurry is quieted by Sherlock's inviting skin. 

"I don't care, you know." Sherlock whispers in the dark, Jim resting on his chest. They're at Jim's place, having explained away his parents' absence as a prolonged business trip abroad. Sherlock didn't question it, he never does, grateful to have a private space away from prying brothers. 

"Don't care about what?" He asks, indulging in more of Sherlock's luscious lips. The prolonged kiss sets off fireworks in their nerves, temporarily frying any attempt at coherent thought.They roll, Sherlock's weight now resting on Jim.

"About what you do." Sherlock murmurs, regaining some sanity. 

Jim pulls back abruptly, "And what is it I _do_?" He tries to keep his tone even, _That could mean a great deal of things, but you, my friend are too clever to have gotten the wrong impression._

"It doesn't need to be said aloud." Sherlock shrugs, "The point is that it doesn't matter." And it really didn't. Sherlock acknowledged he was _supposed to_ feel some sort of jealousy after deducing his boyfriend's penchant for prostitution. As for what he was supposed to feel about his near-mafia level of criminal involvement… well, they didn't exactly write about that in Dear Abby. But he knew he _should've_ felt some sort of revulsion. 

However, the moment those feelings tried to force their way into his heart, Sherlock shut them down. _That's part of who Jim is… and it's actually pretty impressive._

"I see." Jim has no opinion of this, but finds it interesting that _someone_ can appreciate his genius. He liked keeping his secrets, but is fascinated that Sherlock had seen beyond his veil. Leaning back into the kiss, he feels free, finally trusting someone with all that he is. 

 _I love you_. Even their thoughts whisper, afraid that the other might hear. 

 

* * *

 

"You're leaving." It's not a question. Sherlock _knew_ Jim at this point — he'd been around far too long, and that _look_ on his face told him everything he needed to know. 

"It's my time." They're sitting on Sherlock's bed, his parents wonderfully absent. Jim had wanted to be the one to break the news, but as always, his boyfriend was beyond his league. 

"Where?" _Don't cry. Don't beg. Don't throw yourself at him._

Jim shrugs, "Dunno." He's trying so hard to be callous, impartial. Unwilling to yield his feelings of emotional turmoil — he never wanted anyone to see that. _Not even Sherlock._ He ponders, _I don't know if love enters into it… if I'm even capable. But if so… well. That just has to stop. It's getting in the way now._

"Well." Sherlock looks away, feeling the beginnings of tears well up under his irises, "Have a good time."

 _Oh god._ Jim grips the blankets to stop from clutching at his heart, _Am I feeling what you are? Or is this me? Sherlock…_ He can't breathe. It was like the crushing disappointment he felt when Sherlock first rejected him, multiplied at an infinite exponent. He didn't think it would be this difficult. He'd left at least a dozen places, but never made any meaningful connections. 

Worse, he knows that if he can't find the strength in him to end _this_ one, he'd never be able to. _Staying with Sherlock…_ But he can't. The idea of staying one second longer repulses him more than he can bear, more than even _Sherlock_ could hope to quell. 

"I think you'd best go now." Sherlock pipes up, voice a horse croak. 

That did it.

Before Jim can stop himself, before he breaks into bawling sobs, he grabs Sherlock's arm, "… come with me?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It COULD end here... but I'm not sure? Happy ending, sad ending, open-ended ending? Does Sherlock say yes? Would he be willing to uproot his life and tell his brother to sod off? Hmm...


	5. Art in the Blood (Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being your own person has never seemed more necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember when this was a light, fluffly, one-shot drabble... I HAVE NO REGRETS!

"Absolutely not." But that wasn't you. The voice was icy, resonant, calm, giving you goosebumps from the chill shooting up your spine. Gives you flashbacks of scoldings and spankings from years ago.

Mycroft waltzes into the room, an air of quiet fury hanging as an aura. You didn't even know he was home.

 _Listening the door…_ You had wanted nothing more than to say yes, but now you couldn't. Not with him standing there. It was as if the last shred of your rational thought had stumbled in, rather than your brother, _Maybe he_ is _my last rational thought…_ Running away with Jim sounded amazing, but realistically, you're not sure how it would work out, especially with his more… _criminal_ proclivities. 

"With respect, I don't believe that's your choice to make." Jim snipes, but as Mycroft turns to look at him, you notice a curious thing: _recognition_.

Anger fails him briefly as something registers in Mycroft's brain, a flash of shock rippling across his face. Shoulders tighten, posture unusually straight. It takes him a moment to recover, though his voice, pompous as ever, is strained, "Oh no? I am responsible for Sherlock." _Oh, how the git likes to rub that in_ , "And since he's not yet of age, that's not something he gets to decide."

Taking a deep breath, eyes averted from your brother, Jim looks at you, words still aimed at Mycroft, "We'll see about that." You notice his expression has also changed, to one of muted panic. But it quickly clears up as Jim's mask is re-applied with a fine hand. He gets up to leave. You wish he wouldn't, but you're aware his presence will only make this situation worse; handling Mycroft was an art that must be traversed delicately. 

"Ciao, _Mr. Holmes_." You catch the faint whisper as he passes by Mycroft's tense form, bumping him slightly at the shoulder. 

It's odd — you've never seen your brother so flustered. Even as he turns his attention back to you, he isn't fully coherent. "Sherlock." It's a deadly, venomous command, "You're not stupid. _Think_. It's a bad idea and you know it." He exits without another word, though you know there's so much more to come. But it's hard to take his words seriously when all of your processing power is focused on something else.

You're furiously trying to puzzle out what that earlier look was for, and why both of them seemed so uncomfortable around each other, and — _oh_.

Cursing your ever-working mind, you've put it together. Even though you now realize you really would've rather stayed in the dark. But an idea, once given root in your conscious, cannot truly be stifled. Mycroft was just the type; older, rich, powerful. Vulnerable in his own way, since he hadn't allowed any _real_ sentiment. 

 _Ignorance is bliss_. It was fine. It really was. At least, it was _before_. But this. This was something you couldn't just shrug off, feelings of love and happiness now replaced by betrayal and insecurity. Things you'd hoped never to associate with Jim. 

At some point, Jim had slept with your brother. 

 

* * *

 

"He's already gone, you know." Mycroft informs you over dinner on the next night, "Fled at the first sign of trouble — he's no good for you. I'm just glad I could put a stop to it before you did something terribly reckless." 

You aren't eating, which is a shame, the untouched pork chop in front of you looked absolutely mouthwatering. Or it would, if you had any sort of appetite. But it had left you, like any shred of your happiness, the moment Jim had walked out of your room. 

What remained was a foul burning of rage. You want to _stab_ your brother for taking what little you still had away. There's a steak knife to your right — it wouldn't even be that difficult. That's not even counting what happened between he and your boyfriend; your whole life, under the guise of _protecting_ you, he's forced you to shun all chances at whatever it was you'd felt for Jim, for anyone else. Glaring at your plate, you mumble, "You're lying."

"Excuse me?" 

" _You're lying_." You hiss louder. 

"What evidence do you have to support that? It isn't as if he's given you any reason to believe he cares."

"Even if that were true…" You know _that_ is a lie, or at least a grave miscalculation, as the coat hanging over your desk chair proved different, "If he were _gone_ , you'd be letting me attend classes."

"Brother dear." He doesn't miss a beat, but he swallows twice before answering, nervous that you've caught his tangled web of illusions, "I was merely trying to be _considerate_. I understand something about heartbreak, especially since you've had little experience in the subject, and was giving you some time to recover." 

It sounds convincing. In fact, you think it might get to you if you weren't so sure in your deductions. _What else has he been lying to me about? … No… he's been trying to save me from myself. Our curse of sentiment._ There's conflict present, but your mistrust of this whole situation leaves you confused as ever. But you are confident in reading your brother's squirrel-y body language, no matter how controlled he's tried to become, "I'd rather have a distraction than wallowing in this old house. Please. I'd like to go back."

Mycroft pretends to consider this over a hearty bite. You know the answer will be some form of "no," but you need to hear it to confirm your hypothesis. _Jim is still here. Waiting for me. I just need to get a message to him, somehow…_  

"Give it some time, Sherlock." He finally speaks, "You'll thank me later."

You excuse yourself from the table as soon as you're allowed, silently skipping back to your room in victory.  

 

* * *

 

It's been five days.

It's too much. You're practically drowning in your own self-doubt, mind and body equally wracked with misery. Uncertainty was your worst enemy. You could be wrong. You _hope_ you're wrong. But the signs were clear as day, nothing else it could've been. 

So badly do you want to talk to Jim, even if you were technically upset by his own doing. Maybe if you heard it from his own mouth, his side of the story, things might be okay. 

Mycroft must know this, and uses your confusion to his advantage, restricting your freedom, going so far as to keep you from school a few days. _Three so far_. The longer you were kept away from Jim, the less certain you became. _And any attempt to sneak out… Mycroft will lock me in my room._ Or so he's threatened.

Big brother hasn't bothered with more lectures; he knows he needn't keep you long — as it was Jim, he'd soon be gone. Words were unnecessary when your one chance of escape was gone. But that begged the question: what _does_ Mycroft know about him? What had he been to Jim?

 _Most likely, not much, or else Jim would've known who I was…_ but you have to stop this line of thought, or else you might question whether or not your entire relationship had been a _lie_. You shake out of it, resolving to talk to Jim before you made any concrete assumptions. 

Whether or not he'd try and see you before he split town remained to be seen.

Picking up your violin, sad, languishing notes flow from your mind, directly into the strings. 

 

* * *

 

"Sherlock." It's an urgent whisper, and you aren't even sure you heard it. Until five seconds ago, you'd been asleep, having turbulent dreams that you can no longer remember. 

"Jim?" You murmur hopefully, turning over in your bed, searching for the switch on your bedside lamp. A hand stops you, curling around your wrist and pulling you to sit. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, you see his outline, some shadows of his facial features, " _Jim!_ " You wheeze, joy welling up in your chest. _Must've snuck in… how'd he get past Mycroft?_ But you decide not to worry about it. 

Throwing yourself into his arms, you can't find it in yourself to be hurt or disappointed over your earlier discovery. Not yet, not now.

His lips find their way to your neck, arms weaving their way around your waist, holding you tight, "I'm not leaving without you." His breath tickles your nape, ruining your prized ability to think. In a way, he's always had this effect on you. You love it, and as you feel your heart soar, you finally realize that you love _him_. 

Only now do you notice neither of you have said it out loud. Maybe you never will. If Jim even felt that way in return. Your mind is fuzzy, getting worse as he begins to suck gently over your carotid artery, pulse racing, slamming against your skin from the inside. 

"I… I won't let you…" But you can't speak, his motions robbing you of your breath. It's funny, you were uncertain today, but now, with Jim here, you don't have any other choice: it's obvious you need to run off with him. Dizzy with lust, you let him crawl on top of you, laying back down, thinking it might settle your head. It doesn't. It just gets worse. _I guess I got what I wished for…_

You melt into his enchanting wake, ecstasy engulfing your very being. Wriggling like a ditz, you realize you hadn't touched him in almost a week, which hadn't happened in over six months of dating. A sudden fever hits, boiling under your pajamas. You pull his face to yours, _devouring_ his lips. He returns with matched verve.

But it starts to feel _wrong_ , your reservations beginning to bubble back up to the surface. _Self-preservation wants to keep me from doing something I'll regret, it seems…_ Your lips still, no longer returning the kiss, leaving Jim's fierce lips wanting. 

Pushing him back, he immediately knows something is wrong — you've _never_ rejected his advances before, no matter the situation. 

"Jim…" Your voice hitches, but you power on, even if your throat is on fire, "Mycroft…" You can't squeeze another word out. But thankfully, Jim gets it. He gets _you_. One look, and you know he understands. 

"I thought you said it didn't matter."

"But… it's my _brother_." 

"He was a _client_." You can tell he wants to scream, but something holds him back. Wanting to keep you, perhaps? You can only hope. "An interesting one, I'll grant, but a _client_ no less."

"How many times?"

"Four." He doesn't hesitate.

"That seems like a lot."

"It's about average… then I usually duck out."

"Meaning you cut him off, seeing as you're still around?"

"No…" Jim sighs, "He got promoted at his top-secret job… meaning they'd be looking farther into his personal life. Couldn't be caught fooling around with a teenager. Especially a _boy_." 

"When was the last time it happened, then?"

"A little before school started."

"Is that why you went after me? Someone more age appropriate?"

He scoffs, "I wouldn't be with him unless he _paid_ me. Which, of course, he did." 

It evokes a small laugh from you; how many times had you noted you and Mycroft were completely different? If he wanted to date _him_ , Jim was barking up the wrong tree. "Did you know who I was?"

You've hurt him, it's clear on his fading smile. Questioning him like this, outright saying you didn't trust him. It makes you feel guilty, because you only ever wanted to grant him happiness. But that isn't a luxury afforded to you, or your cold, trained logic. 

"Holmes is a common enough last name." He sounds hollow, "And I _noticed_ you long before I knew your name."

"And you didn't know by _looking_ at me?" _We share fifty percent of our DNA, maybe more physical traits here and there._

"You have to admit, there is absolutely _no_ family resemblance." He gives a wry smile. 

"Yeah…" It was true; Mycroft had red hair, yours was black. He was a bit taller, thicker, while you were a skinny, gangly mess. Even your facial bone structures were fundamentally different. But your pessimism dies hard, still not leaning back into his embrace.

"Sherlock." He takes your hand, "I _promise_ you, it didn't even occur to me you might be related until I saw him walk through that door. Even _he_ hadn't put it all together. And if I had known, I probably would've avoided you out of courtesy."

It sounds right. At least, you need to believe Jim would never do something to hurt you like that. You believe him, and finally fall against him, face buried in his lapel. And before you can stop it, you begin to weep. Within seconds, you're bawling. It hurts. You're not sure why — perhaps it's built-up emotion you didn't let yourself feel until he let you. Leftovers from Mycroft's regime that you hadn't tossed out the window when you decided to break his arbitrary rules. 

But they're gone now. Being your own person has never seemed more necessary.

"Shh… shh…" He pats your back, pulling you close, "It's okay. It's really okay." 

He's warm. He's wonderful. Something permeates from his skin, soaking into yours via osmosis, filling the chasm that had reappeared. He completes you, for better or worse. It's hard to tell how long you're crying, but however much time, it's pretty embarrassing, but Jim doesn't say anything about it. He just continues to comfort you. Eventually, when you're cried yourself silly, he lifts your chin and wipes the remaining tears away. 

"Now…" He grins an evil grin — one that has always promised both greatness and mischief. "Ask me how this is a good thing." 

You're ready. You're willing to do whatever it takes to run off, including standing up to Mycroft. Whatever questions or reservations remained, you knew Jim was the answer, as he's given you strength you hadn't even thought of cultivating, "How?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to tag this Jim Moriarty/Mycroft Holmes (I'll stick to "implied pairing"), because of how frustrated I get when a Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty fic pops up and it's non-con, or some-other-pairing endgame. It's not about Jim and Mycroft, it's about Jim and Sherly :)


	6. Oh So Naughty (Jim)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it didn't matter how upset he seemed over your departure, or how much love you were sure was reciprocal; there was a difference between the idea and the practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, smut, smut

Nothing you've ever done is arbitrary. With every forward step, you gain either power, favor or money. Yes, some people had to die, some had to have their lives ruined, but in the end, you unquestionably came out on top.

Which is why it was such a shock when your need for acquisition finally hurt _you_ personally. Well, no, not _you_ , but someone you cared about (which, in itself, had never happened before). You finally knew the fear of _loss._  

The moment Mycroft Holmes walked into that room, you panicked. You tried as best you could to hide your reaction, and he did too. Blindsided, you realized that Sherlock had never once mentioned his brother's name, just that he existed. 

However, it's _Sherlock:_ the one person in the world whom nothing slipped past. Excusing yourself as quickly as possible, you whisper the vaguest hint of a threat to Mycroft as you walk by, calling him "Mr. Holmes," as he requested you do during each of your times together. 

You agonized over the realization that you wouldn't be able to tell him _first_ , and that the government official would get to tell Sherlock whatever he wanted, no matter how wrong or deceitful it was. 

 

* * *

 

Waiting for the next day so you could see him at school, you prepared yourself for the worst: Mycroft saying you two were in a _real_ relationship, and that Sherlock was somehow rebound, or revenge. _Nothing could be farther from the truth_. 

Mycroft had been smarter than most, perhaps even smarter than you, but the man had an air of smugness you couldn't get around. Maybe he did run the country, or at least very close, but on a personal level, he was _unbearable_.

Thankfully, he had only engaged you for sex, rather than full escort some of your patrons did. Talking only made up ten minutes or less of Mycroft's engagements. His desires extended nothing beyond satisfying an urge.

But Sherlock already knew that your sexual liaisons meant less than nothing. He had figured it out on his own, and hadn't asked you to stop. He said it didn't matter, even supported your decisions. All the flings were the same: they were about control, and Mycroft was no different. You didn't know what else you could say. He _had_ to believe you. He just _had_ to. 

Except Sherlock didn't come to school. Not the next day, or the next. _I didn't expect_ this… _well played, ice-man._

Mycroft was _keeping_ him from you. Despite the anger, you knew this was a good thing — if he was worried about letting Sherlock see you, it meant he was still within your grasp. Meticulously, you work out a plan to sneak in. 

 

* * *

 

You're surprised at how unsecured the place is — of course, you'd been many times before, but never in secret. Never without Sherlock leading you. You get in through the kitchen window, and tiptoe your way to his room. The path is familiar, comforting. Gives you that home-y feeling you've never really had before. 

Carefully, you open his bedroom door, not making a sound. Shutting it behind you, you're graced with Sherlock's slow breaths. _Asleep_ , you look at the shadow of him on the bed fondly, _I'm sorry for making you wait._

Waking him up, you're pleased that he seems to have forgiven you, passion overtaking both of you from the separation. However, he comes to his senses and begins to interrogate you. You don't like it, feeling attacked, _No one questions me. They just follow_. _Then again… this is why I_ like _him, instead of_ use _him_. 

After you've sufficiently convinced him, you explain how this is actually a _good_ thing, "Like the rest of my sexual exploits, blackmail material on him gives me a _lot_ of leeway." You smirk, "He doesn't want you to leave, and unfortunately, he _does_ have the right to keep you." 

"But you now have the ability to… _convince_ him." Sherlock has caught on to your line of thought. Yet another reason to adore him. _Love_ him, even if you weren't ready to admit it.

"Yes."

You kiss again, just as savagely as before. It seems _absurd_ that you haven't so much as held hands in nearly six days. He pulls you back, holding steadfast to you as you rest on his lithe form. Letting yourself get lost, you nearly forget you have important matters to discuss — all of the blackmail in the world didn't mean a thing if Sherlock didn't _want_ to go with you.

Except, you're sure he does. But it didn't matter how upset he seemed over your departure, or how much love you were sure was reciprocal; there was a difference between the idea and the practice. To put your mind at ease, to go through with it, you need to _hear_ consent spoken aloud, "Sherlock, _wait_ , we need to — "

" _Please_." He whines into your lips. You don't take much convincing — when could you _ever_ deny him? Even if he would come to deny you. Despite fearing your ultimate rejection, you take great pleasure from peeling away the layers of pajamas. Once his garments are in a careless pile, he rolls the both of you, taking control. 

As he usually does (when you two are in a bed), he draws you under the sheets, as if protecting you from the outside world, entangling your limbs. Tongue gently tracing the inside of your teeth, Sherlock takes his time with you. Sweet, as he always was (even with the deprivation), you wished you had the _patience_ he did. But whenever you see him, you have the automatic urge to see him _bare_ , without the inhibitions of clothing. His body did such _atrocious_ things to you, yet you couldn't stand to have anything less.

The cool caress of the sheets on your bare skin as your underwear is slid away is a welcome respite from the scorching heat you two had been producing. But this relief is immediately dispersed when he begins to kiss your ankles, working his way up. He rests at your thighs, breathing hotly on the tender skin. You want to squirm for contact, but something was so _delicious_ about the anticipation.

His tongue begins to wander, and you find him pushing your legs apart, an unexpected move that you comply with and — _oh_. Grabbing fistfuls of your arse, he began licking at your entrance, dragging out the sensations as slowly as possible with each lap. Now you writhe. Once again, Sherlock has given you something entirely new. He rests your legs over his shoulders, your muscles clenching violently. He speeds up, you incline into his face to get as much pressure as you can. A low moan emanates from your throat, and his hand flies up to cover your mouth.

It just isn't _fair_ when he freely groans, figuring his own noises were muffled enough by your body to let free. The vibrations pouring from his mouth reverberate through your whole body, "Sherlock…" You mumble through his fingers and he presses harder, but you've got nothing more on your mind. He's everything.

Dipping ever so slightly inward, your nerves are a raging inferno, threatening to destroy your sanity. Somehow, it doesn't seem like the worst punishment. 

Finally taking pity on you, he nudges a finger in alongside his clever tongue. You try moaning again, but only manage a squeal. He persists, adding more fingers until you feel too full, and yet still crave _more_. _I can't take much more of this, Sherlock…_

Thankfully, he picks up on that thought, or perhaps grows impatient himself as he pulls his face back, giving his hand a few more drives, "Did you have something to say, Jim?" He asks cheekily as he fishes for the lube stored under the bed.

Vigorously shaking your head, you don't want to delay it any longer. Carefully extricating his fingers, you whine at the sudden emptiness, only to be penetrated again by his weeping prick.

You can't breathe. At least, that's what it feels like. In actuality, you can hear your absolutely _salacious_ panting. But you feel like everything you've known has been cut off, even your most basic functions, all taking a back seat to worshipping this magnificent feeling, and the glorious boy causing it. His cock skids across your prostate, and it takes all you can not to come right there, and you've only just begun. 

"Sherlock… not much longer."

"I know." He grins wickedly.

"What — " But your question dies in your larynx, the ghost of the words still on your lips as your muscles rhythmically contract, drawing out your release. 

Sherlock stops, leaning down and kissing your shoulders as you begin to settle, his prick still painfully hard inside of you. Then he begins to move again, and the wildfire wreaks havoc, "Sherlock, what are you — "

"Shh." He murmurs, "I want to see if I can get you to come again."

The idea intrigues you — it's never been attempted before — but you can't help shrinking away, the pleasure _too_ intense, blood churning in on itself. You want to cry for help, but also for him to keep going. You try to muffle your begging whimpers, to little avail, getting worse as he slowly begins to palm you, quickly coming back from limp, you're now achingly desperate to come again.

Sherlock delivers. Somehow, you still have ejaculate, spilling out over his hand. As your body clamps down on him a second time, he follows suit, giving a depraved sob as he flows into you.

He collapses at your side, grasping your hand. You wish this moment wouldn't end, that he'd keep you close. 

"I needed that." He whispers breathlessly, "It was too distracting…" He nuzzles into your neck, "Being so close to you, but not touching…" 

You stay like this for a moment, ignoring the way your sweat mingles and dries together, focused solely on how _right_ it feels to be connected again. sit yourselves up and task both of his hands in yours, "Now that we can both think clearly… I'll ask again. And this time, I want an answer from _you_." Your eyes take on a familiar intensity, "Will you come with me?"

You're glad he doesn't answer right away, giving your offer _real_ consideration. Instead of a thoughtless promise, you're treated to watching the wheels turn in his head. 

"If we're not staying in England… I'd like to live somewhere near the coast."

You smile so hard it hurts. 

No matter your flaws, or your blind ambition, you've never regretted any move. Until you hurt the one person you've ever loved. But now, with Sherlock once again firmly by your side, your potential mistake was now an excellent bargaining chip.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Sherlock calls his brother into the dining room, you two waiting for him, sitting at the table.

" _Somehow_ ," Mycroft spits as he takes a seat across from both of you, "I knew you wouldn't take the hint to _stay away_."

"If it were from Sherlock, I would've abided — I respect his choices, you see." Sherlock's fists ball at his sides, anger visibly welling up for his brother, "If anyone hasn't taken a hint, it's _you_ , _Mr. Holmes._ " You continue to use that name, relishing in the shock that registers on the perpetrator's face each time you use it.

"In the absence of our parents, which is frequent, I am entitled to make such big decisions for him. And I, with my considerable experience in life, see _you_ as a threat to his happiness."

"Again, you've placed the blame on the wrong person… I've _shown_ him happiness. All you've shown him is cruelty and oppression."

"It was _necessary._ And will _overall_ be much better than the life you're offering him."

"You can take the justifications I extend to you or not, _Mr. Holmes_. But trust me, I will eventually get what I want regardless."

"And how would that be?" He asks smugly, as if he were so untouchable. As if his biggest vice wasn't sitting in your chair, wearing your clothes, staring him in the eyes.

"You're a smart man, _Mr. Holmes_." You wink, "What do you _think_ I'll do?"

"Blackmail, Jim?" He crinkles his nose, "How uncivilized."

"How _uncivilized_ is it to have past actions worth blackmailing?" 

"Don't think I can't do the same." You quirk an eyebrow, practically reading the teleprompter in his head, "I could tell the world about how your father ' _died_.' Or how you're not legally allowed to be living on your own." 

"Even worse that you took advantage of a poor _orphan_." You clasp a hand over your heart, gasping in scandalized shock. 

"Still. It would stop _your_ plans."

"And _your_ career." You shrug, aware of what it meant to him, "Besides… I'll got to foster care for maybe a year. Then I'll turn 18. Shortly after, so will Sherlock. I doubt _delay_ would be worth your entire livelihood." He pauses, and you know you've got him. 

"Sherlock…" He knows you won't budge, so he's turning to his last hope, "He's manipulating you. And me. He manipulates _everyone_. Is that really the kind of person you want to forsake your family for? Your entire life? Is that who you want to be?" Of course, if Sherlock declines your offer, then you lose. But he won't. At least, you hope so — you trust him, and you trust his feelings for you, and his answer last night. But you know the oppression he's gone through, the near-irreversible brainwashing. He might have some hold on your beloved yet. 

But to your relief, Sherlock shakes his head, "And what is it exactly _you_ do, Mycroft? Would becoming _you_ really be any better?"

"I work for the betterment of mankind."

"The betterment of your _boss_." Sherlock corrects, "Don't try to convince me you've got _pure_ intentions."

"Sherlock, I — "

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock interrupts, "You've got it all wrong, brother. I won't _become_ him, because I already am. Always have been." 

"Well, well, well." Unbridled joy runs rampant through you, but you don't let it show, merely saying the basest of all your possible victory statements, "Pack a bag, my love." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to come :)


	7. Epilogue (Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Enjoying yourself?"  
> "You have no idea."

Laying near the water along the _Côte d'Azur_ , Jim had certainly delivered on your request. It had been a few months, and while initially you two had lived in central Germany, your chosen partner was an obstinate nomad. But after that, he seemed confident that you two could find a place to settle down for at _least_ a year.

You both agreed some sun and surf might be nice, so Jim, rather than obtain a huge mansion closer to the cities, bought a small beach condo near the shoreline in southern France.

For all of Mycroft's flaws in raising you, you were suddenly incredibly grateful he'd forced the French language into your head. Though, when it was just you and Jim, you both preferred English. 

"My love." The dulcet tones of his voice caress your ears, "There you are." You feel the towel underneath you depress in the sand as he laid next you.

Turning your head to look at him, you squint in the sunlight, appreciating his pale, sculpted body in nothing but swim trunks, "How'd the job go?"

He shrugs, "Smuggling things out of Monaco. Nothing big."

"Not for you, at least." You smile, curling an arm around his waist.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"You have no idea."

Of course, you missed London. It was your home, and one of the greatest cities on Earth. But you were enjoying the beauty of travel. The freedom to be just as the wind was — moving, unrestrained. 

Living with Jim was like something out of a fairytale; amazing food when you wanted it, any material good you could desire (books, clothes, nick-knacks), and _him_. Jim Moriarty, the only person in the world who could stimulate your intellect. One of the biggest draws, however, was never having to _hide_. While you were in your own home, wandering unfamiliar territories, you could be yourselves. What left did you have to prove?

Sometimes it would get lonely, Jim working each day on some crime or another. But that all changed when you started _helping_. 

Like him, you thrived on puzzles. And crime, it turns out, was an amazing puzzle game; figuring out exactly how the system worked, how others would respond. 

You hadn't yet thought of something worthwhile you wanted to do — eventually, you and Jim would be going to university, though you weren't sure where, or for what. But then again, with Jim's ambitions, perhaps you didn't _need_ formal education. 

"Well good." He stretches out to absorb more rays, "We're going to run the world, Sherlock."

You believe him, aware you've signed on to be with him a very long time.

Which you would happily do forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's short, and pretty happy, but I intend to write a second epilogue from Jim's perspective, would anyone be averse?


	8. Epilogue (Jim)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make an exception for him because he's just exceptional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of realism for you guys here, but at this point they've been together more than two years :) Gave a time-skip so there could be some sense of gravity in their situation. 
> 
> TW: Past suicidal thoughts

Nothing you've ever done is arbitrary. That's a lie now, of course, but somehow you don't seem to mind. In a sense, you don't think love is "arbitrary," but it was definitely random. A whim that struck you one day, and yet another whim to perpetuate it. And a complete risk to your perfect system, so it was even _more_ than reckless — it was downright dangerous. 

But hey, you'd always been craving a little hazard, so what's wrong with that? Sherlock is beautiful, probably the most stunning thing you've ever seen. Mind, body, intelligence, everything. The way you feel when you're together… you're him. He's you. Simple as that, complexity layering both of your beings, entwined since before either of you had the chance to be conscious of it. 

You make an exception for him because he's just exceptional. 

Waking up in his arms, it's just another day. Well. Just another day with _Sherlock_. Already, you know it'll be wonderful. The darkness and bleak landscapes of his nightmares quickly fading into obscurity, barely remembering them as he gazed upon Sherlock's impeccably blissful resting face. He plants a gentle kiss on his cheek, just enjoying him, waiting for him to join him in the world of the living. Because really, you had all the reason in the world to live. 

Before you two had met, you'd felt… bored. The trysts no longer excited you; they were work, clients' status no longer the biggest issue, having a blackmail roster longer than your leg. You were abundantly wealthy. You had people everywhere you needed them. Money, sex, connections… honestly, life was a game you had _won_. The world had been ceaselessly monotonous, and you had been romanticizing the idea of ending it all. It was more a formality than anything else, you were running so constantly on auto-pilot. 

But in here Sherlock's arms, you feel absolutely _alive_. Your luster for life has been restored, because you want more time on this Earth with _him_. Love, a prize you had long neglected the value of, seemed to be the most important of all. Cliché as that was. 

It had even been more than the agreed upon year in France, but you aren't feeling the _jitters_. You're _happy_ , you both are. Without even realizing it, you'd been together two years strong. You fight sometimes, yes, it's bound to happen, especially being so similar, being together constantly. But it's almost always your fault — your own insecurities get in the way — most of your "fights" are you yelling at Sherlock, accusing him of wanting to go "back home."

And of course he does. He grew up in one place. He _had_ somewhere to call home. You try not to resent him for having what you never did, and try to accept the fact he _left_ familiarity just to be with you was _romantic_. Still. Sometimes it gets out of control in your mind, a wildfire of your own insanity burning all rationality away, screaming at you that he'll betray you just like everyone else. Really, you're not yelling at _him_ , so much as the howling storm of inferno pounding into your skull. 

Shaking your head out of these reflections, you see he's beginning to stir. Leaning forward, you press a soft kiss to his lips, murmuring, "Good morning, lovely." 

"Morning." He returned sleepily, a wide grin spreading over his face the moment you pull back. Christ. He was perfect. Looking at him now, you can't understand how you've ever gotten angry at him. Immediately, you lunge on him, connecting your lips, the passion never having died in all your collective hours together. 

You both take a break for air, gasping and groaning. Remotely, you must decide that it's time to start the day (and you might as well, it's nearly afternoon). Giving a small smile, you stroke his curls fondly into some sort of order, "What would you like to do today, my love?" 

He returns with a coy smile of his own, a slight blush painting his delicate features, "Spend it with you. Right here."

Deciding to cancel your jobs for the day, you're more than happy to oblige. As you kiss, bodies sliding together, time seems to slow and stop, making a pocket just for the two of you, this moment immortalized in its perfection. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually really sad to see this end... Maybe there will be a sequel, but this feels pretty finished. They don't have a perfect relationship, but they're happy. I'm sure they will be forever <3 
> 
> THEY'RE SO PRECIOUS!!! :')


End file.
